


If I Can’t Reach the Stars (It’s All Because of You)

by lamerezouille



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:32:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1953435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamerezouille/pseuds/lamerezouille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco loves to fly, but hates Potter. Then he’s selected as Team England’s reserve Seeker for the Olympic Games. Potter is the team’s main Seeker. See where the problem is?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Can’t Reach the Stars (It’s All Because of You)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raitala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raitala/gifts).



> **TROPE: Quidditch Fic**
> 
>  
> 
> A/N: Thank you so much to the mods for being so understanding and accommodating to my dreadful tardiness, and to my two wonderful, wonderful betas, S and M, for being absolute sweethearts as well as fast and so very efficient. Title is from the Izia song _I hate you_ , opening quote is an excerpt from _Quidditch Through the Ages_.

> _
> 
> Oh, the thrill of the chase as I soar through the air
> 
> With the Snitch up ahead and the wind in my hair 
> 
> As I draw ever closer, the crowd gives a shout 
> 
> But then comes a Bludger and I am knocked out. 
> 
> —Ingolfr the Iambic, early 1400s 
> 
> _

~((o))~

Draco loved to fly.

He liked Quidditch too, of course he did. He liked the invigorating feeling of being part of a team, of being _important_ and having the stake of the game rest on his shoulders. He liked the screams of the fans: those supporting his team as much as those against him, because they gave him the opportunity of showing them how wrong they were. And he liked the cold sensation of metal in his palm and the flutter of wings against his fingers when his hand finally closed on the Snitch. He liked knowing he’d won.

But as good as everything about Quidditch could feel, it was all about flying. He loved the sound of the wind against his ears and the grain of the wood under his fingers. He loved closing his eyes sometimes during a sprint and feeling like there was no one and nothing else in the world. He loved pretending he was free.

Draco’s love of flying, he reckoned, might very well be directly proportional to his hatred of Harry Potter.

Harry Potter and his stupid glasses and stupid hair and stupid grin and stupid arse. Not that Draco ever really looked at Potter’s arse _on purpose_ , but he didn’t really have a choice, when said arse always ended up ahead of him in their race for the Snitch. Merlin, did Draco hate this arse more than he hated anything else in the world. And the fact that the arse in question was actually _fit_ didn’t help matters. At all.

What he hated most about Potter (and his arse) was how, by always besting Draco, Potter had a tendency to completely ruin Draco’s love for flying.

At least, during the regular Quidditch season, there were only a few games Draco had to play against Potter. Well, Draco’s _team_ had to play against Potter’s _team_ , he should say. Except that, as far as Draco was concerned, it was always going to be personal between them. Regular Quidditch season meant only one or two friendly matches per year, plus the occasional European tournament that might bring their teams to meet at one point or another. All in all, besides the magazine covers and newspaper articles and Wireless shows featuring Potter (and luckily, only very sporadically his arse), it was usually very easy for Draco to completely ignore Potter’s existence.

If only it was still regular Quidditch season.

‘It’s an outrage!’ Draco declared, more to his Firewhisky than to anyone else.

‘Stop being so melodramatic, honey, it doesn’t match your skin tone,’ Pansy said, with an unsympathetic roll of her eyes and a sip of her sparkly elven wine. Draco didn’t expect more than that from her; he’d learnt not to. Blaise and Millie nodding their approval so readily, on the other hand, was all kinds of disheartening.

‘That doesn’t even make sense,’ Draco grumbled before emptying his glass in one gulp. It was no way to appreciate the quality of the brew, but Draco had no mind to care about that right now.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be crying with joy, though? Isn’t it supposed to be a great honour? I hear most sportspeople train their whole life for this kind of thing,’ Millie said, using her how-come-I’m-the-most-reasonable-of-you-all tone.

Draco usually liked her ignorance of all things Quidditch because it generally led her to being supportive of his choices, no matter how stupid they could seem to anyone who knew anything about Quidditch. But right now he really wished she was not so naïve about this kind of thing. Then again, given how Slytherin she could sometimes prove to be, he wouldn’t be surprised if she one day revealed she’d been a great Quidditch connoisseur all along. He made a mental note never to engage in a Quidditch-related bet with her.

‘It’d be an honour if our dear Draco had been selected as main Seeker, Millie. I don’t think he’s ever been cut out for a bench-warmer position,’ Blaise said, as the bottle of Firewhisky he’d been summoning landed on the table with a clank. ‘Especially not when the person chosen in his stead is—no pun intended—the Chosen One.’

‘Shut up, Blaise,’ Draco said as he seized the bottle and poured himself perhaps a bit more than he should.

‘Yeah, shut up, Blaise,’ Greg echoed, loyal friend that he was.

It’d never been any question why Goyle hadn’t Sorted in Ravenclaw, but maturity had made Draco wonder plenty of times how the man hadn’t ended up in Hufflepuff. Because, some bad choices from Seventh Year put aside, Draco doubted it was humanly possible to be more loyal than Greg was. Especially when the person he was loyal to was Draco. Draco wasn’t enough of a fool to think it was because he ever deserved it—especially not when they were in school.

‘I’m sure they only took him instead of you because he’s famous,’ Greg said, his wide gestures making the glass in his hand spill a bit. ‘They must have been scared to offend his fans or something,’ he insisted, despite Blaise and Pansy’s undisguised scoffs.

‘I doubt Charlotte Morgan would be scared of anyone,’ Pansy pointed out with a smirk. The Team England selector was famous for her ruthlessness and her uncanny ability to silence an entire stadium with a glare. Draco knew Pansy was right, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.

‘I think, my dear Gregory,’ Blaise said, as condescendingly as ever, ‘that they chose Potter over Draco simply because there’s no match between the two that Potter hasn’t won.’

‘Shut up, Blaise.’ Draco said, from where he’d dropped his head on the table. He knew he was repeating himself, but he wouldn’t have had to if Blaise actually did what he’d been told, for once. It was an unrealistic expectation, he knew, but he was drunk and had no compunction with being a bit capricious.

‘All I wanted to say, Draco,’ Blaise declared with a bright grin and a chronic incapacity to let sleeping crups lie, ‘is that you might not be as good as Potter, but you still made the team. Even if you never get to fly, who cares? You’ll still get the medal!’

Draco wanted to retort that he didn’t play for the medal, or the cup, or whatever golden form winning took, but he wasn’t dishonest enough to do so.

‘You should just accept your luck and get over it,’ Blaise went on. ‘No need trying to beat the unbeatable. You’ve never managed to get the Snitch from Potter and you never will.’

Blaise could have been a bit more tactful about it, but he was right. Of course he was: he knew what he was talking about. For someone who’d never mounted a broom—going so far as to refuse to take the first-year flying class back at Hogwarts—there was nothing Blaise didn’t know about the contemporary Quidditch scene. There was no game in Great Britain Blaise hadn’t gone to and no professional player he wasn’t on a first-name basis with. Draco knew it was mostly due to the fact that Blaise must have shagged at least half of them (whilst making his way through the other half), but whatever reason Blaise had, Draco couldn’t contest his dedication to the sport.

Draco was a good player. He had been selected for Team England for this summer’s Olympics after all, despite being shunned by all UK teams during the regular season and having had to play in France his entire career. With his team, he’d won everything that could be won in French Quidditch, despite losing to Potter’s in European games. He’d thought the Firecall from Morgan was his chance to prove to his country that he’d swapped his Death Eater identity for a Seeker one once and for all. The problem was: how could he do that when all he’d be doing for the duration of the Games would be sitting on a bench and watching Potter be the hero once more?

At least he’d get to see Australia.

~((o))~

Draco had no idea why he thought seeing Australia would be a good thing. It was supposed to be the _Summer_ Olympics, yet the country it was taking place in was still in winter, and it was bloody freezing. Especially when all one did all day was sit on one’s arse.

‘You’re a grumpy bloke, aren’t you?’ One of the reserve Chasers—Lara? Lauren? Draco didn’t remember and didn’t really care—said as she sat next to Draco. 

Her stance was relaxed, her elbows resting on the back of their bench and her legs stretched out in front of her. Her face was angled towards the sky, and she seemed to be watching the main team’s training exercises avidly. She could at least have had the courtesy to look at him when she was insulting him.

‘I’m not grumpy. I’m _cold_ ,’ Draco protested, hoping his tone was threatening rather than whiny.

He saw the Chaser roll her eyes in his peripheral vision and decided to ignore it. He wasn’t there to make friends. _And apparently not to play Quidditch either_ , he thought bitterly as one of the members of the main team made a ridiculous and useless loop above them. Draco was sure it had to be Potter, but didn’t want to look too long to check. He’d gone to great lengths to avoid any contact with Potter whatsoever during the first few days of training (the same way he’d managed to do it ever since the end of the war), and was pretty proud of it. As a result, he’d so far managed to stay ignorant of how Potter’s arse looked in the Team England gear, and had no intention of starting now. Draco didn’t know what Morgan aimed to achieve by forcing them to attend the main team’s training session, because the only effect it had on Draco was to make him want to punch someone (Potter, preferably, but Draco wasn’t going to be fussy about it.).

As he was opening his mouth to elaborate on how discontented he was with his situation—and to hell with the Chaser thinking he was grumpy or cranky or whatever—he suddenly felt a warm breeze blowing over his face and infiltrating his clothes, seeping into his bones pleasurably.

He turned his head towards his neighbour sharply. ‘Did you—?’

‘Yes, the warming charm’s mine,’ she said with a lazy smile, revealing her wand peeking out of her sleeve. ‘Don’t know why _you_ don’t have yours. I’m aware most people don’t bring their wands on the pitch with them anymore ‘cause they’re scared it’ll get broken by some loose Bludger, but I can assure you there’s no Bludger coming this way. You can trust me on this, I’ve been reserving for Team England for some time, now.’

Draco didn’t answer. If he started listening to her advice now, he might as well admit to his fate as Reserve Seeker for All of Eternity. He tried to look away without looking up at the team’s training, but she unfortunately wasn’t deterred by his attempt at ending the conversation.

‘You should consider yourself lucky. You’re still young and already reserving on Team England for the Olympics. You’ll be on the main team in no time, while I’ll soon be the retired Chaser with the biggest number of medals she didn’t actually play to win.’ There was a peaceful smile on her face, but Draco could still detect the bitterness in it—it was something he was very familiar with.

‘It’s not being reserve Seeker that I resent, but rather for whom I’m reserving,’ he finally answered, in a bout of honesty he was half-surprised by. He couldn’t help the glance towards Potter that followed and spared a moment to be mad at himself for not having had to search the sky for him. While trying to keep from looking up, he’d still managed to know exactly where Potter had been at any given time.

Potter chose that moment to catch the Snitch with a very reckless and very impressive dive, his arse right in Draco’s line of sight. Draco tried not to groan too loudly.

‘You can say anything you want about Potter,’ the Chaser said with the beginning of a laugh in her voice, ‘but Merlin can the boy fly!’

~((o))~

It was two days later that the reserve team was finally allowed in the air with the main team.

Draco had spent those two days sitting on the same bench he’d been on that first day, trying to look at Potter as little as possible and chatting amicably with Laurel. Laurel Jenkins, Blaise had informed him her name was. She’d been a chaser for the Catapults for almost all of her career, and yes, maybe Draco should have known that, but he’d lost interest in British Quidditch when British Quidditch had lost interest in him.

He’d spent half of the first evening in a pub with Blaise, trying to commiserate about how unfair his life was, while Blaise ogled the other patrons (most of them Quidditch players, _of course_ ) and mostly ignored him. Draco spent the other half of the evening being stood up by Blaise, who went to shag one of the French Beaters in the bathroom. Draco hated that the only friend he had who could afford to come to Australia for the Olympics was Blaise.

Draco also hated that Potter _did_ have many of his Gryffindor friends sitting with him on the other side of the pub, accompanied by most of the rest of Team England, and that they all seemed to have a jolly old time laughing and talking obnoxiously loud. He hated that Laurel had seen him brooding in his corner and had waved at him to come sit with them. He hated that he had wanted to join them, even only a little bit.

He spent the second evening alone in his hotel room, cursing the Australians’ inability to imbed their buildings with automatic Warming Charms like normal wizards all over the world did. He still got to hear Potter and his friends drunkenly get back to the hotel in the middle of the night, laughing and uselessly shushing each other. Draco had to work very hard on his self-control not to storm in the corridor and hex all of their genitals off.

Draco hated Potter.

But _now_. Now Draco was on his broom at last, hovering over a brand-new Quidditch pitch that had been built by the city of Sydney especially for the Olympics, and it was _glorious_. Draco could see the ocean through the hoops on one side and the beginning of unending wilderness on the other. The broom he was on felt a bit too new and he no doubt looked like a bloody beacon against the cyan sky in his England-red uniform, but even the too-cold breeze in his hair couldn’t ruin the excitement of finally, _finally_ flying again.

He’d arrived early and was the first on the pitch and the first in the air, and he used the extra time it took the others to mount their broom and strap their gloves on to fly a few loops around the pitch. Up, down, left, right, he felt like he owned the place and that if he concentrated hard enough on this thrill in his chest, nothing could ever stop him.

Unfortunately, the relief of finally being able to fly didn’t last long. Soon there was Potter flying just below him. Potter doing twirls in front of him. Potter rising vertically on his left. Potter everywhere. Whatever Laurel said, Draco was glad he never took his wand with him on the Quidditch pitch, because if he’d had it then, there was no doubt he would have found a way to hex Potter into the next wormhole, Boy-Who-Lived or not.

When Morgan called them all to impart her Coach-ly wisdom, Draco was well near exploding with his want to strangle Potter. The way he was all dishevelled by his flight (even more dishevelled than usual, but also strangely more attractively so), his boyish grin, his glasses sitting askew on his nose… It was a good thing flying had lifted Draco’s mood.

‘All right,’ Morgan’s voice boomed from where she was hovering in the middle of the somewhat-spherical shape their whole team formed in the air. ‘If I’ve called up the reserve team to fly, it’s because it’s time for _serious training_ to start.’ A faint groan emanated from the members of the main team. Their training the last two days seemed to have been gruelling enough already without things needing to get any more _serious_.

‘We’ll start with a short bout of position-specific drills—beaters against beaters, seeker against seeker, chasers against keepers—and then we’ll play an actual game, with mixed teams. I want it to last at least two hours. If one of the seekers catches the Snitch beforehand,’ she went on, piercing Draco, then Potter with one of her good glares, ‘Good for you!—you’ll be in my good books—but I want you guys to release it and start again. Today’s training is all about endurance, and I want it to show.’ She paused and looked at the fourteen of them one by one, before concluding with an ‘Understood?’ no wizard on earth was foolish enough to answer no to.

The moment Morgan mentioned “seeker against seeker” training, Draco knew he wouldn’t like it. He hadn’t expected how infuriating Potter would turn out to be, though. Had it reached Potter’s lone brain cell that today’s theme was _endurance_? Morgan couldn’t have been clearer about this and yet here Potter was, diving and looping and twirling, doing useless and showy pirouettes, and generally making a nuisance of himself. Draco didn’t let himself get distracted. He kept Potter in his peripheral vision, of course, but he also kept his position, concentrating in his search of the Snitch and ignoring everything else going on on the pitch.

Feints, be them Wronski or any other, didn’t work on Draco. Draco’s first reaction when he saw his counterpart was _not_ to panic and try to race them to the Snitch. It was first to check if the Snitch was indeed the cause of the outburst and if so, to evaluate his chances of getting to it before the other, taking into account broom speed, distance and wind direction.

What Draco could analyse from his current situation was that Potter was a complete pillock.

The Snitch didn’t appear during this first part of the training, and Draco was very satisfied to see Potter was already sweating profusely whilst Draco was still as fit as a fiddle. Morgan didn’t comment on it though, preoccupied as she seemed to be with one of the beaters’ bat-gripping technique.

Draco was a bit miffed he hadn’t had the occasion to win the Snitch from Potter—and he was sure he _could have_ , the way Potter had been flying—but it was only a matter of time, now. The more gruelling part of the training was about to start, and there was no way Draco was letting Potter get the Snitch at the end of one of his ridiculous cabrioles.

It took twenty minutes and Draco spotting the Snitch near one of the hoops for Potter to finally stop with his shenanigans. Neither of them got the Snitch that time due to an array of Bludgers coming their way and making them switch paths just as the Snitch vanished again, but Draco had been in the lead. Potter’d been _behind_ him, and Draco knew he would have beaten him.

After that, the situation got somewhat tenser. Potter’s competitiveness level seemed to get higher too, and despite them being in training—one mixed-match team of first line and reserve players against another—it did suddenly feel like the most important game of Draco’s career. Everyone on the pitch suddenly seemed on edge, from the keepers to beaters, including even some of the team staff.

Everyone was holding their collective breath, and the Quaffle flew through a hoop with barely anyone noticing. Draco gradually blocked from his mind everything around him. There was only one thing that mattered now: getting to the Snitch before Potter. He didn’t care if his team was being led three hundred-nothing and chose to trust the Beaters to protect him; he didn’t even pay attention to Potter anymore.

Draco didn’t know how long his brain had been a-buzz with deep concentration when he finally saw it. The Snitch was there, flying suspiciously idly, slightly above the east entrance of the pitch. Draco didn’t waste his time glancing in Potter’s direction. He couldn’t care less what Potter was doing. He had already decided he was going to be faster than Potter anyway.

Draco was speeding the fastest he thought he ever had, gusts of air whistling loudly in his ears, and he could feel every little part of his uniform where the wind resistance was weaker. He was getting closer and the Snitch was still there—he had adjusted his course only a little—as if waiting specifically to be caught. Draco was stretching his arm when he felt Potter sliding beside him, slightly behind, but threateningly close.

He willed his broom to go faster, even if at this point it was stretching its limit dangerously. He could almost feel the flutter of a wing on the tip of his fingers when suddenly—

Everything happened fast, very fast. So fast that Draco didn’t have the time to realise _what_ exactly was happening—let alone catch the Snitch.

Potter screamed ‘ _MALFOY_!’ in a raw voice and slammed into him. It had to be against the rules, but Potter _never_ broke the rules, not in Quidditch. There was the smell of burnt skin and a purple light in Draco’s peripheral vision, and then they were falling. Draco didn’t know where his broom had gone, where Potter’s was. They were falling and all Draco could think, over and over again, was that _at least Potter hadn’t caught the Snitch either_.

~((o))~

There had been a cushioning charm on the ground when they reached it, but it didn’t keep Draco from still feeling sore in all of his left side an hour later. The uncomfortable chair he was sitting on wasn’t helping either, but given that Morgan was so mad black smoke was almost fuming from her ears, Draco didn’t dare protest. Potter had been rushed to Healer Scarpin’s care right after their fall, but apart from what looked like a black rash where the thumb and index of his right hand met, he didn’t seem the worse for wear. Well, not counting the daggers Morgan was currently looking at him.

She’d been pacing in front of them without a word for what must have been five minutes now, and Draco still had no clue what exactly had happened back on the pitch, why none of them were training right now, and why she looked so completely mad. He suspected those three things were related, though.

And then, after a bit more pacing by Morgan and a bout of Potter looking guiltier than he ever had when he blatantly broke rules back at Hogwarts, their almighty coach finally started talking:

‘I have spoken with Healer Scarpin, and there is no choice in the matter, Potter. I want to curse myself for hiring someone so likely to find himself in dangerous situations...’ Draco barely managed not to roll his eyes. Of course, Potter would find himself in dangerous situations; he had done so all his life. Potter looked like he wanted to protest these allegations though, but Morgan was mid-rant and there was nothing stopping her. ‘I know it’s not your fault some madman decided he could just show up and hit you with a dark curse while we were training. You’re a brilliant player, Potter, and I genuinely like you as a person, but the rules are the rules, and you can no longer play for Team England for the Olympics this year. There’s nothing I can do.’

Draco did _not_ expect that.

It didn’t seem to be a surprise to Potter though. He already looked resigned, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his eyes cast down. Draco thought fleetingly that Potter must have had a similar conversation with Scarpin already while getting patched up.

The idea of Potter not playing anymore—and for what reason? This was just a minor fall, after all—was so befuddling, so _unfathomable_ , that it took at least thirty whole seconds for Draco to realise what it meant for _him_.

He was reserve Seeker. He was the only person available to take Potter’s place. There was no bringing someone else to the team once the official teams had been declared to the magical Olympic committee. And even if it had been possible, it was _Draco_ who had already been chosen, already deemed the best English Seeker after Potter.

It was _Draco’s_ time to shine, now, and there was nothing that could keep him from winning England the gold medal.

He felt suddenly rejuvenated, and it was only Morgan’s stern look in his direction that kept him from doing something silly like leaping for joy.

‘The curse Potter was hit with, the one that caused your fall,’ Morgan was explaining, and maybe Draco should pay attention, ‘is of the dark variety—not dark enough to have irremediable damages, thank God, but its only cure is _Etarnitæ Recoverus_ , a potion that, because of its highly beneficial effect on endurance, speed and focus, is on the list of forbidden potions for any official Quidditch game.’

Her tone was so sombre and her face so closed off that even Draco, who absolutely didn’t care _at all_ about Potter’s good health, managed to lose most of the giddiness the realisation he was to become main Seeker had brought. There was something menacing in her expression when she looked at Draco, too, and he had a feeling he would not like what she was about to say.

‘And because I’m not gonna let myself completely lose the advantage of having England’s best Seeker on my team, I’m gonna put in place a personal training regimen for you, Malfoy, with Potter as your coach.’

The light feather-like feeling that had filled Draco’s chest suddenly turned to lead.

Draco didn’t like what Morgan had had to say. He didn’t like it _at all_. And, perhaps the worst thing of all was that Potter himself did not seem to mind one whit. He was nodding earnestly at the training plans Morgan was detailing to them now, something almost enthusiastic in his demeanour.

Draco _hated_ him.

~((o))~

‘Why _the hell_ are you so happy about this whole thing?’ Draco demanded to know, the next day, while they were in the locker room, getting ready for their first one-on-one training _nightmare_.

He didn’t care that he sounded unhinged, and that anyone overhearing them right now would be under the impression that Draco was about to use very painful and very illegal curses on Potter. He didn’t care that he was deliberately antagonising the person responsible for his training—and for how tough it could get. All he cared about was unloading the rage that had accumulated in his chest ever since Morgan’s announcement.

He’d spent the night fuming more than sleeping, and even the rare show of sympathy from Blaise the evening before—the selfish prat had even bought him a drink instead of fucking the Saudi Keeper he’d been making eyes at all day—hadn’t managed to alleviate any of his resentment.

‘Do you get off on humiliating other people, is that it? Or is it only humiliating _me_ that thrills you? Aren’t you supposed to be all sad and angry that you can’t play anymore?’

Draco had advanced on Potter progressively while talking, and he could suddenly see Potter’s eyes better than he ever had. He could also see Potter’s nostrils flaring and his frown deepening.

‘You’re an arse, Malfoy,’ he said in a very definitive manner, as if it answered Draco’s complaints in any way. ‘And I don’t see how working together on your Seeking skills is in any way _humiliating_.’

Draco had no word to express how completely _appalled_ he was. Potter really didn’t get it. He was so far up his own arse that he didn’t even realise that an outside world where he wasn’t the be-all and end-all of everything could even exist. Draco had been named Player of the Year by _Le Journal du Quidditch_ and had a Snitch-catching success rate of more than ninety percent. How could Potter not realise how demeaning it was to have to be tutored for a skill you made your living from?

‘Look, Malfoy, I don’t know if you’re ever gonna get treated for this persecution complex of yours, but for me, it’s about being able to fly even if I can’t play, it’s about being part of the _team_. Not that _you_ would understand that.’

Draco had nothing to answer to that. No, he had no idea what being part of the team felt like, not the way Potter meant it, in any case. And how could he? This _team_ Potter was so proud to be part of was the same one that had always refused to recruit Draco because of mistakes made when he was a bloody _teenager_. The same team who had only taken him in now to prove they thought he was so subpar he needed personal coaching from someone who didn’t even have a longer experience than he did.

Even in France he’d only been part of a team as a glorified human _Accio Snitch_ charm. And back at Hogwarts, he’d only been there for his father’s _Nimbus 2001s_.

Draco sulked all the way to the pitch without another glance at Potter and mounted his broom as soon as he was there. He did a few laps to get a feel of the wind, and ignored Potter when he arrived on the pitch and started shouting his name. If the git wanted to speak to him, he could come and do it in the air.

If he was able to catch Draco first, that was.

And of course Potter caught up with Draco. Draco hadn’t expected any different: he was not as challenging as a Snitch, after all, and even those only managed to escape Potter so very rarely. But Draco’s goal had still been reached, because by the time Potter had stopped him and was clearly gearing up to a speech about how if Draco spent half the energy being annoying on being _cooperative_ , they would work together _perfectly_ , the rest of the team had entered the pitch and was ready to take flight, and Draco had managed to avoid his individual training with Potter altogether. Draco might be feeling more like a spoilt brat than he did when he was an actual spoilt brat, but he still felt it was completely worth it.

Draco managed to avoid Potter after practice and all evening too, but the same technique didn’t work the next morning, when Potter cornered him at his arrival and had the gall to bloody _confiscate_ his broom—the bastard snatched it right from under Draco’s nose. If this was Potter’s way of trying to endear himself to Draco, it didn’t work. If it was his way of trying to get himself punched, it was about to work beautifully.

‘Listen, Malfoy,’ Potter said carefully, perhaps sensing how close Draco was to becoming violent if he wasn’t handed back his broomstick very soon. ‘I know what you can do on a broomstick, I’ve witnessed it first-hand, and I know you’re _very_ good.’

Draco didn’t want to let himself be manipulated by sweet-talk, but hearing compliments about oneself was always very nice, so he decided to let Potter talk.

‘Yesterday proved to me how fast you could be, and how very _focused_ , and I can see at every game what an agile player you are. It’s not really your actual flying skills that are in question. You’re a _fantastic_ flyer, and you always have been.’

Was there something wrong with Potter? Had he been hit by a Bludger yesterday? Or did the curse damage his brain in addition to his hand? He looked a little pink on the cheeks, and Draco _had_ to know if this was the actual beginning of a blush.

But before Draco could take advantage of this temporary weakness, Potter was all frowns and serious eyebrows again, and he seemed to know that Draco had wanted to take the piss, because his next words were, ‘And no need to be a smart arse about it, because you might be one of the best Seekers out there, but you’re not the best. I am.’ The brightness in Potter’s eyes was fierce. Draco might not want to raise his hackles anymore, but the urge to punch him came back to him violently. Or perhaps it was a different urge, but too difficult to discern for the amount of thought Draco was willing to put in.

‘There’s a reason you’re not _the_ best, Malfoy,’ Potter was going on, still so infuriating, but, for some reason, Draco couldn’t take his eyes off of him. ‘Do you know what your biggest asset as a Seeker is?’

The question was not rhetorical. The question was not an excuse for Potter to make an impassioned speech about how he knew Draco better than Draco knew himself. He seemed to be genuinely interested in what Draco’s response to this question was. And Draco knew the answer to this question, of course he did—he’d been answering it with “My dashing good looks” or “Talent is not earned, it’s gifted to you at birth,” when journalists had asked him in the past—but there was never any doubt in his mind about what the truth was.

‘I never fall for the Wronski Feint,’ he answered honestly.

It was bizarre, being honest with Potter. Mostly, what was bizarre was Potter’s reaction: a serious nod, and even the beginning of a smile. Draco didn’t think this was something he would ever be able to elicit in the Saviour of the Wizarding World. He had to remind himself it was not something he actually _wanted_. Making Potter hiss and splutter had always been way more entertaining. This was too unsettling.

‘Your problem,’ Potter went on, ‘is what your biggest flaw as a Seeker is: you never fall for the Wronski Feint.’

~((o))~

Their second private training session went better than the first did, but that was not very difficult to accomplish. Despite the fact that Potter had stuck into his head the idea that Draco should take more risks as a player—which was utter bollocks: look where taking risks had brought Potter, straight to the bench—the prat was a bit more bearable than Draco had actually expected. He was less conceited and less patronizing than usual, and Draco found that he was even capable of the odd clever joke.

To say that things went uphill after that, however, would be a complete lie. It seemed in fact that seeing Draco and Potter work passably well together during _one_ training session had given Morgan the impression that it would be a good idea to make them train together _at all times_.

What it really meant was that, even if Potter did become a little bit more bearable over time, Draco didn’t have the _choice_ to bear his presence anymore. From then on and until the end of their participation in the Games, as per Morgan’s orders, Potter and Draco had a common timetable from sunrise to sundown.

The only positive thing about the whole ordeal was that Potter seemed as resentful of the decision as Draco was. Gone was his satisfied smile from that first day, and each time Draco felt like he wanted to use an Unforgivable, all he had to think about was Potter pouting like a five-year-old, and all things seemed better.

Their usual day went :

  * Eating breakfast with Potter—at an ungodly hour during which the rest of the team was blissfully still sleeping—to go over the day’s schedule and assess the main training points of the day.
This generally meant Potter talking at Draco while he was trying to appreciate his morning cup of tea, and Draco trying to distract Potter by eating as disgustingly or lewdly as possible, depending on his mood of the day. It also meant Potter trailing him every time he got up to get supplementary servings and trying to guilt him with very pathetic looks when Draco ate his third croissant of the day. Draco didn’t like breakfast very much anymore. 
  * First training of the day right after, focusing on warm-ups and stretching exercises.
These were more fun, because Draco took advantage of those to insist on hand muscles—‘These are very important muscles for a Seeker, Potter, it’s with my hands that I’ve got to catch the Snitch, after all.’—and watch Potter begrudgingly agree and suffer through the exercising of muscles that were still very sore for him. And when Potter had enough of hand-stretching, Draco would claim that he needed to work on his backside muscles, and use the remainder of the session to stare at Potter’s arse. Now that he knew Potter’s arse wasn’t going to be flying in his stead or ahead of him in the race for the Snitch, Draco had learnt to appreciate it for the aesthetic marvel that it was. Too bad it was attached to such a git. 
  * Classic team training with everybody else, with team strategy and emphasis on Bludger-avoidance while Snitch-catching.
This must have been the worst part of the day, because no matter how quickly Draco caught the Snitch then, how impressively he dodged a Bludger or how cleverly he managed to stray Potter from his path if he looked like he was flying too determinedly, there was nothing— _nothing—_ he could do to make the rest of the team like him. Apart from Laurel, he hadn’t really spoken to anyone, and for some reason they all seemed to hold him responsible for depriving them of Potter. The worst about it all, though, was how _sorry_ Potter always made himself look when a Beater who was supposed to be on Draco’s team “accidentally” targeted him, and how not-discreet-at-all he was when telling his comrades how they should let poor Draco alone. These were the times of day when Draco’s hatred for Potter always came back full force. 
  * Lunch with Potter and Morgan to discuss the strengths, weaknesses and likely tactics of the other teams of their phase one pool.
Lunch was not especially good or relaxing, but at least it gave Draco a respite from the rest of the team and, even if Morgan was the furthest thing from being nice and cuddly, at least having a buffer between him and Potter was something to be thankful for. What Draco liked less about it was the way Morgan always implied that Draco should fly more like Potter or try to copy his catching-style from Potter’s. Draco always entirely avoided Potter’s eyes during that kind of speech, but he knew full well the Boy Wonder was no doubt nodding condescendingly while patting himself on the back, and Draco had no wish to witness any of that nonsense. 
  * One-on-one training focused exclusively on Snitch-catching, separated from the rest of the team.
This might be the time of day where Draco was amenable to cutting Potter the most slack, mostly because it was also when Potter was the least conceited. This was also the only moment where Draco really felt he was actually playing Quidditch, where he actually felt worth something as a Seeker. Being on his broom with only the Snitch in his mind, without needing to worry about the rest of the team, or his “Seeking tactics”, or anything even remotely related to the Olympics, felt wonderfully liberating. The only remaining problem, of course, was that Potter was still there, and still getting the Snitch before him too many times. He was also regularly trying to give Draco _advice_ and was unable not to be annoying whilst doing it. 
  * Back to team-training.
It was a good thing Draco had the habit of leaving his wand in the locker rooms because Unforgivables would fly faster than the Snitch and harder than Bludgers if he had it on him. 
  * End of the day visit with Healer Scarpin.
Draco had thought the first time he’d read his timetable that seeing the team Healer everyday was a bit too much (and it was especially too much when he realised that it was only Potter and himself who had to do that), but Morgan had been positive: they had to make sure that the team’s only Seeker left was in good shape and that the former one was taking his medication and was well on his way to be reusable for the next international event. It wasn’t like Draco was their long-time choice after all. 


In summary: it was all Potter’s fault.

~((o))~

‘Do I really have to take all these potions _every day_?’ Potter was whining when Draco arrived in Healer Scarpin’s surgery on the third day. The prat had managed to arrive early—the perks of still being on the team while not having to listen to Owen Richards’ (Morgan’s first coach assistant) phony end-of-day pep talks—and was already installed on his bench and in the process of taking his various post-injury potions.

‘How old are you, Potter? Quit whinging and be happy your hand hasn’t fallen off,’ Draco said while letting himself fall on Healer Scarpin’s second bench unceremoniously.

‘Your colleague is right, Mr Potter,’ Scarpin concurred while starting to wave his wand over Draco with the usual basic diagnostic spells. Ravenclaws were rare in the Quidditch industry, but Merlin were they a breath of fresh air amidst all the nonsense that seemed to pervade the atmosphere of every Quidditch pitch. ‘The curse you were hit with is a very powerful one, emanating from tremendously dark magic. It was lucky it was curable at all.’

‘So…’ Potter started hesitantly, ‘what would have happened if it had touched me somewhere else. Like…like right in the head?’

Draco rolled his eyes. Was Potter so reckless that he hadn’t even realised the gravity of his situation until now? Given the number of times Draco knew Potter had been cursed in the head with barely any consequence, it wasn’t that surprising, but still. He was a professional Quidditch player, for Merlin’s sake. Injuries of all kinds happened all the time in this sport. There was an official tally of players’ deaths on the field in the Ministry’s Department of Magical Games and Sports. Was today the first time it occurred to Potter that he wasn’t some kind of invulnerable superhuman being?

‘There is very little chance you would have survived such a critical hit, Mr Potter. And this despite your personal history of survival,’ Scarpin answered with a fatherly smile. Draco hated how even the wisest of people couldn’t help fawning all over Potter.

‘Oh. Okay,’ Potter said simply, before going uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the session.

Draco found it surprisingly unsettling, how Potter wasn’t blathering on about random things he discovered in Australia or nagging Draco about his training regimen. He wondered for a minute if it was a sign of latent brain damage from the curse, but Healer Scarpin was too thorough a professional to have missed something like this.

‘Did you forget you weren’t invincible Potter?’ Draco couldn’t help but ask when Scarpin released them, only barely holding on to the _‘Are you okay?’_ some invisible presence inside his brain wanted to let out.

‘Yeah? I was just…thinking I guess,’ Potter answered absently before glancing at Draco and adding hurriedly, ‘Yeah, yeah I didn’t strain any muscle doing so, thanks for the concern.’ There was a smile on his face, like this was a private joke between them.

Draco needed to argue, to say something that would set Potter straight about this silly assumption, but found himself unable to speak before Potter went on, ‘I guess I’m just glad nothing worse happened.’

And there again, there was something unsaid in Potter’s expression, something Draco couldn’t entirely fathom, and Merlin was it frustrating trying to decipher Potter’s odd little code.

‘Are the Australian Aurors on the case, then?’ asked Draco.

Potter frowned at him as if he was jumping from pillar to post for no reason.

‘The person who cursed you,’ Draco felt he needed to clarify, ‘are the Australians looking for them? Or maybe they’re having some kind of secret international magical organisation on the case, what with its victim being such a high-profile British citizen,’ Draco finished wryly. He hadn’t really thought about it since it happened, but now that it came to mind, Draco would have expected them to Portkey a whole Auror squadron from London to protect the Great and Mighty Potter.

‘Well, er, Ron was already in charge of all the Team England security stuff for the Olympics, so he’s taken this case too. I guess he hasn’t found a lead yet, though.’

There was a madman on the loose who had hit Potter with a very dark curse, but the prat didn’t seem worried about his safety at all. Draco wondered how it felt like, being so confident about yourself and others that an attempt on your life didn’t faze you more than that. Perhaps that was the kind of behaviour Draco had to adopt if he wanted to be the kind of Seeker Potter thought he should be.

~((o))~

It was that night, just before falling asleep, that Draco realised he might not totally hate Potter anymore.

The next morning, breakfast with Potter was more...civil than the previous days. They even exchanged pleasantries that were somewhat sincere before Potter started bugging him with Seeking statistics and average broomstick equilibrium.

‘Sometimes, I wonder why you even went into Quidditch at all,’ Potter remarked whilst munching on a piece of sausage, taking Draco by surprise.

 _I wanted to prove that I could do it_ , Draco didn’t say. _I wanted to be worth something to someone_ , he didn’t say either. _I wanted to be part of something_.

‘I love to fly,’ was all Draco was actually capable of getting out. And it was true, too; maybe even truer than the rest.

Draco resolved to act more politely than usual during their physical training that morning, then thought it was stupid to change his behaviour, then realised it was already too late. Perhaps it was connected to his not being a little shit anymore, but Draco noticed that Potter was behaving differently too.

There were looks, and smiles, and even dimples, and they wouldn’t have been considered out of place by anyone else, but Draco couldn’t help focusing on them more than he should, more than he wanted to.

By the time their one-on-one Seeker training rolled around, Draco realized that the whole day had been more pleasant than any of the days before. For the first time since he’d arrived in Australia—for the first time since he got selected to play in the Olympics—Draco felt like he was worth being on Team England. For the first time, he felt like he actually deserved it.

It was not because his participation in these Olympics had suddenly turned not so bleak anymore that it meant Potter had stopped being annoying altogether. He _still_ flew from nowhere to catch the Snitch from under Draco’s nose when Draco expected it the least and still had a tendency to fly ahead of him much more than was necessary, showing off his admittedly very nice arse with a frequency way too close to the average exotic dancer.

Draco did win a lot of shoulder to shoulder duels though, and while a third of them might be attributable to the length of his fingers rather than to skill, it didn’t change the fact that he did win against Potter. Now that he knew it was something he was able to do, he felt almost invincible.

He was flying in strategically uneven circles around the pitch, attentive to any potential flash of gold in his peripheral vision while contemplating perhaps trying a Wronski feint of his own when there was a sudden flash of purple light followed by a thundering crack in the air, and, before Draco had any chance to analyse the situation, Potter had thrown himself from his broom and onto Draco’s.

Draco had no idea what had provoked this incredibly bizarre reaction from Potter, or even what on earth could provoke this from anybody. What he knew was that Potter’s body was heavy and warm against him, the scent from his hair was strong and heady, and Draco could feel Potter’s skin against his at various points of contact.

Draco had a short flash of sharing a broom with Potter, with flames cloying at them from everywhere, but it was thankfully quickly thrown from his mind by the realisation that someone had actually jumped on his broom in full flight, and that Draco was apparently still in the air. Impressive. Draco was not a good flyer, he was a fucking _incredible_ one.

And then Potter’s voice reached his ears: ‘Oh my god, Malfoy! Are you all right? Did they hit you?’

‘Did who hit me?’ Draco asked, bewildered. ‘Apart from a flying Boy Who Lived assaulting me on my own broom, I don’t see any other threat around here.’

His words were punctuated by the same light and thunder from earlier, and it became pretty clear that the almighty threat that had made Potter literally jump from his broom was actually Muggle fireworks.

In other circumstances, there would have been no way Draco was ever going to let Potter live this down, but right now... Potter’s arse was literally in his lap and proving itself as round and firm as Draco had definitely never fantasised it was... It was very difficult for Draco to form coherent thoughts, let alone actual spoken sentences.

Without knowing why or how, suddenly his eyes were closed and his face nuzzling Potter’s neck, and Merlin, was he actually hard from this?

Potter’s hands went from fumbling to find a grip on Draco’s shoulders, to groping Draco wherever he could reach. If he went on reaching lower, there was no way Draco—as magnificent a flyer as he was—could stay in the air much longer.

With a hand on the back of his neck, Draco gently tilted Potter’s face towards him and pressed their mouths together just as he began his descent towards the pitch’s grass. Draco had thought for a very short moment that Potter might protest, but he answered with such gusto, soft whimpers leaving his throat every time they stopped for breath, that Draco had no doubt about Potter’s inclination towards being kissed by Draco.

They were still kissing when they reached the ground, stumbling between Draco’s broom and the earth, Potter’s mouth still working feverishly hot against Draco’s, his hands, now that they were free of holding him on the broom, roaming everywhere: Draco’s front, back and sides, his arse and his groin, sliding expertly under his team uniform.

Did Potter have experience getting into Quidditch pants? Was this some kind of initiation all players who weren’t hated by their own team went through? And the scariest thought of them all: was Potter doing this because he actually _liked_ Draco?

Draco didn’t know why he was kissing Potter (why he liked it so much), but decided that he had no qualms letting his downstairs brains do all the thinking for now. As long as Potter kept his hand right there…

‘We shouldn’t... We shouldn’t do this here,’ Potter whispered against his ear, and it took Draco a moment to realise there were actual words and not just another way for Potter to drive him completely crazy with want.

Draco hadn’t done this for longer than he would have liked to admit, but when he stumbled inside the empty locker room, Potter wrapped around him, his tongue warm on the back of Draco’s neck, he felt like he had been doing this all week. This tension with Potter usually bothered him, but now that he could free himself of it, now that he could touch Potter, and breathe him, and kiss him, and lick him, it almost felt like a blessing.

Their clothes were on the floor in a matter of seconds, and suddenly they were sweaty skin on sweaty skin, Potter’s mouth hotly tracing Draco’s shoulder, and his hands—Merlin, those hands!—were everywhere. Wasn’t one of those supposed to still be healing? Perhaps that was one of the effects of the curse.

The urgency of the moment gradually let room to something slower, almost languid, but also more intimate, more significant.

And then there was Potter’s arse, Potter’s sweet and glorious arse, naked and right in Draco’s hands. Draco had to mentally go back on every bad thing he ever thought about Potter’s arse.

‘You’re gonna fuck me, right?’ Potter asked, panting against Draco’s cheek.

‘I swear to you, nothing can stop me from doing just that, Potter.’

Draco grabbed on Potter’s arse full-hands, fitting it in his palms just so, and lifted him in one fell swoop, forcing Potter to hold on him tighter. There was no doubt he would leave a bruise on Draco’s shoulder very soon.

They did little preparation, and only a few tugs on each other’s cock by way of foreplay, and then Potter was sitting on Draco’s cock and establishing a rhythm from his perch in Draco’s arms that could have constituted an Olympic sport in and of itself. All Draco could do was keep on leaning on the lockers behind him as steadily as possible and not let his legs fail under the sheer strength of pleasure.

There was Potter’s arse in his hands, Potter’s thighs around his waist, Potter’s feet at the back of his knees, and Potter’s mouth where Draco’s neck and shoulder met. There was Potter’s heat around his cock. There was Potter, and nothing else but Potter.

When Draco felt his orgasm beginning, it was as though it had been there all along, from the first moment their skin had met. It exploded out of him with a flash of light behind Draco’s eyelids and low grunts from the back of Potter’s throat.

After that, Draco’s legs couldn’t hold him upright anymore, let alone Potter. But it wasn’t because Draco’s knees were too weak to carry Potter that he couldn’t sink onto them and take Potter’s still hard and leaking cock right into his mouth.

Potter’s busy hands were in Draco’s hair now, a faint distraction from the weight of Potter’s cock on his tongue. It only took a few sucks and licks after that, not even enough time for Draco to get familiar with the texture of Potter’s cock, and then Potter was coming too, and Draco had to pull away if he didn’t want to completely ridicule himself by making his cause of death be choking on Potter’s come.

Afterwards, they sat side by side on the floor, dirty and still naked, leaning against the lockers. Their shoulders were pressed together and the hairs on their legs were brushing each other’s every time they as much as twitched. 

‘Should we, perhaps, get dressed?’ Draco hazarded after his heart had stopped feeling like it was going to beat out of his chest. ‘Isn’t the reserve team about to barge in to actually use the lockers any minute now?’

‘Honestly, after the orgasm I’ve just had, I couldn’t care less,’ Potter said with what wanted to be a laugh, but was too tired to be more than a sigh. There was a sudden shift in their positions, and then Potter’s hand was on Draco’s thigh. Even in the afterglow of Draco having his dick inside Potter, it strangely felt the closest they’d ever been to each other. And it had the effect of scaring Draco shitless.

‘I’m gonna have a shower before Fletwock comes in and tries to hog all the hot water.’ It was a lame excuse, and kind of inconsistent with Fletwock’s showering habits too, but it was all Draco had. He needed to think, and he couldn’t do that with Potter’s tantalizing skin in such close range.

Perhaps Potter knew the effect his state of undress had on Draco’s brain cells, or perhaps he was just that innocently clueless—as innocent as someone who’d just fucked himself so wantonly on Draco’s cock could appear—because he chose that moment to play his advantage fully. He tightened his grip on Draco’s thigh and said, his voice husky from all the grunting he’d done during sex, ‘I’d suggest to take the time to get in the shower together while we still can, but I don’t think I’m in good enough shape to have another go right away.’ There was a guileless smile on his face when he paused, then went on: ‘We’re totally gonna do that again though, right?’

The question shouldn’t have taken Draco by surprise, it really shouldn’t have, but in the haze of what had just happened, in the haste, it hadn’t really occurred to him that there was a possibility Potter would ever want this to be more than a one-time event. And now that the idea was there, Draco could see it, what it would be like, doing this with Potter again.

There were dozens of different scenarios taking shape in Draco’s brain:

  * He and Potter fucking like rabbits every night, every time they had a free time, in secret but right under the rest of the team’s nose, and it would be hot and exciting but it would fade away when they left Australia. Maybe they would still fuck on the odd occasion they were in the same city at the same time, but no one would ever know, and Potter’s friends would still look down their noses at Draco.
  * He and Potter fucking again, and becoming friends, but Potter being ashamed of him, and Potter’s friends convincing him he had nothing to do with Draco. Potter protesting and defending Draco. But in the end, Potter realising his friends were right all along.
  * He and Potter actually honest-to-Merlin dating. Potter not caring about anything his friends would have to say, but realising Draco was not and had never been dating-material. Potter taking advantage of one of them going back to England and the other getting back to France to let Draco down gently.
  * Potter’s friends actually being okay with their relationship. He and Potter working to make their relationship function despite the long-distance. Potter falling in love with him; Draco screwing it all up to hell.
  * He and Potter just fucking once more. Potter being okay with it, while Draco was not.



There was no way—no actual way—fucking Potter again would ever amount to anything good.

Draco got up and tried avoiding Potter’s eyes, but they were so big, all of a sudden, and so, _so_ green, and there was nothing Draco could do to escape the question in them, the carefully veiled hope.

‘I…I don’t think it would be very professional,’ Draco said. It was too hesitant though, and Potter was smiling again, like Draco was just trying to be coy about it all. As if Draco ever had it in him to be something as trite as _coy_. ‘Look, I don’t do relationships,’ he said more assuredly—or at least he hoped it sounded so. At least he’d managed not to look into Potter’s eyes this time.

He must have struck the wanted note though, because Potter’s stuttered answer of, ‘Oh. Okay. Er, no problem. That’s… Er, okay,’ sounded suitably hurt, sufficiently rejected for Draco to be sure that Potter would go back to his normal self—his not-wanting-Draco-to-shag-him state—and Draco would go back to hating Potter.

Draco went into a shower stall to clean his skin of sweat and come and tried not to pay attention to Potter anymore.

~((o))~

It was quite an impossible feat to not pay attention to Potter. Not when they had to train again with the whole team right after, not when Draco actually knew what Potter’s arse looked like under his Quidditch robes.

Draco tried to concentrate on the game at hand with all his might, but every time he caught a glimpse of Potter’s constantly ruffled hair, of his fucking _hands_ , there was something breaking off in his brain, and it took more and more time for Draco to get his head back in the game each time. Given that, as a Seeker, he was actually supposed to watch Potter like a hawk, qualifying Draco’s playing right then as abysmal would have been an understatement. Draco could feel Morgan’s glare burning a hole through his skull and tried not to think about it too much.

After such a lousy demonstration of his skills, Draco was very tempted to skip his daily appointment with Healer Scarpin, but as the only excuse he could think of was that he was feeling a bit queasy—which would have been very counter-productive to getting out of a Healer’s appointment—he chose to resign himself to one more hour of complete awkwardness to finish the day.

It was awkward, but it actually went way better than expected. They didn’t make eye contact or acknowledge each other in any way, and if Scarpin noticed anything, he had the good sense not to remark on it.

Draco was also thankful that there had been no direct-to-skin application of potion scheduled for him that day because he definitely didn’t want to have to interact with Scarpin ever again if the Healer _knew_. Not that Draco didn’t suspect he was able to figure it out anyway, but that was definitely something he didn’t want to have to worry about.

Draco was even lucky enough to actually have a friend to commiserate with that night. It must have been through the workings of Merlin’s ghost that Blaise wasn’t fucking some Ukrainian player and was actually available to talk with, but even so, he would never have been Draco’s first choice to tell this story to. It wasn’t like Draco had any choice, though. He didn’t have any other friends here.

For Potter it was different; he would be all right. Even if all his little flock hadn’t come to Australia for the Olympics—Granger and Weasley, and Finnigan and Thomas, and the other Weasleys who had taken the trip—he would still have had Johnson and Wood and Spinnet with him here. There was no reason for Draco to be worried, no reason for him to feel any guilt about Potter’s bloody _feelings_. Draco was supposed to hate him, after all; he was not supposed to care. He was not even sure Potter had actual feelings to speak of. It was Draco who was at a disadvantage here, after all, with only fucking _Blaise_ to talk to.

Blaise had come to Draco’s room and had sprawled on his bed upon entering, an uncaring grin on his lips.

‘So, what’s got your knickers in a twist, Malfoy?’ were the first words that left his mouth.

Draco poured himself a Firewhisky and took a hearty sip before gracing Blaise with an answer. ‘I fucked Potter,’ he said bluntly, not taking as much satisfaction as he could from Blaise’s surprised gasp at this announcement.

‘My, my, Draco! I’m impressed! Even _I_ never managed to catch the Golden Boy’s Snitch. Thought the man was a complete monk for sure.’

‘This is nothing to be gleeful about, Blaise,’ Draco sighed. ‘You realise this is one of the worst things that could have happened, right? We’re supposed to train together almost twenty hours a day, and…’ Draco had to pause and reconsider. _Why on earth did Draco think it was ever a good idea to talk to_ Blaise _about this?_

Draco was stopped from figuring out how to express what _exactly_ his problem was without sounding like a complete pansy by someone knocking on the door of his hotel room.

It was Potter; of course it was. Who else could it be, after all? The only other person likely to visit him was already here.

‘Listen Malfoy,’ Potter began, not letting Draco say anything—he wouldn’t have known what to say anyway—‘There’s clearly no way to pretend nothing happened between us, and I realise you don’t want anything to do with me anymore, I get it. But we’ve been working so well together, and _you’re_ the one who brought up professionalism, so we’ve got to… I don’t know, figure something out, I guess, because I really thought we...’ Potter trailed off abruptly, and Draco had been too distracted definitely not looking at Potter’s mouth or his hands to notice why right away.

Potter’s expression had turned blank as he was staring unwaveringly at Blaise, as though he’d just noticed him.

‘I, er. D’you maybe want to have this conversation more...er, privately?’

Draco didn’t want to have this conversation, privately or otherwise, but he nodded anyway, stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him, ignoring Blaise’s leering from inside his room.

Once they were alone in the corridor, Potter’s stance changed drastically. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, his face completely closed off and said, ‘I didn’t know you were still friends with Zabini.’

This was not what Draco had been expecting. What did Blaise have to do with any of this? Draco felt like he was being scolded by his mother for keeping bad company.

‘What the hell, Potter? How is my friendship with Blaise any of your business? I don’t ask you what shenanigans you get up to with your crazy friend Lovegood.’

Potter pursed his lips and deepened his frown before saying, icily, ‘This is miles away from the kind of things _Zabini_ does on a daily basis.’

Was Potter actually serious right now? Was the bloke who had fucked himself on Draco’s cock only a handful of hours ago actually condemning Blaise for his promiscuous lifestyle? Was this why he had really wanted to fuck Draco again? Because of a warped idea that if Draco fucked him once he shouldn’t be able to fuck anyone else? Draco felt ashamed to have fallen for it even one millisecond, to have actually believed that Potter actually wanted him for him. For all Draco knew, it had all been a ploy in his warped mind to save Draco from the road to perdition that was having multiple sex-partners.

Draco swallowed his hurt and squared his jaw. If Potter thought his prissy attitude would make Draco change his mind about a lifelong friendship, he was sorely mistaken. All it did was make Draco remember why he used to hate him so much.

‘You’re such a judgmental arsehole, Potter, I would never have guessed. I can’t believe I sucked your cock.’

Draco turned back to his bedroom, to his actual _friend_ Blaise, who might sometimes be a pain in the arse, but who at least was not a monumental hypocrite.

‘I actually thought you were...’ Potter started, something emotional in his voice that sounded out-of-place in this conversation. ‘But that doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Not at all. You _clearly_ don’t need me anymore. I don’t think you ever really needed me at all.’

Draco slammed the door behind him as hard as he could. He didn’t know what fantasy-world Potter had lived in where Draco had needed to fuck him to feel whole or whatever. Draco hadn’t declined Potter’s offer of doing it again because he was some Blaise-like manslut with no feeling whatsoever. And even if he was, Potter had no right to judge him.

~((o))~

Draco had thought that Potter pestering him about Quidditch at all times of day had been bad, but it did not hold a candle to Potter just…not caring anymore.

The following morning, Potter didn’t show up at breakfast nor at physical training, and Draco wouldn’t have cared, except that waiting for the arsehole had made him late to team-training, where Potter, of course, was already present, and did not even bestow one glance on Draco while he was being scolded by Morgan for his tardiness.

Draco didn’t know if Potter had said something to make the rest of the team hate him even more than usual or if Draco was just paranoid, but even as team-training used to be the worst part of Draco’s day, it seemed to have reached even lower levels.

And yes, Draco could very well—if very reluctantly—admit that Potter’s personal coaching, and advising, and breathing down Draco’s neck about every single detail of Quidditch had actually helped. Potter completely ignoring Draco wasn’t a hindrance to his game-play per se, but it sure was bloody frustrating. Potter’s capacity to behave like Draco’s victim when he was the story’s arsehole though...that was mind-boggling, and Draco had great difficulty adapting to it.

It was blatantly obvious to Draco how Potter’s behaviour had changed and all the more frustrating how Morgan and all of the assistant coaches seemed completely oblivious. And when they did notice things, it was only _Draco’s_ poor performance and _Draco’s_ strategic mistakes.

Draco should never have fucked Potter, and the worst thing was that even with everything that had happened, he still wanted to anyway.

Draco should never have stopped hating Potter. He really wished he could go back to it.

The closer they got to the beginning of the Games, then to their first group match against Guiana, the more distressed and distracted Draco grew. Frankly, he got close to actually becoming _bad_ at Quidditch. The worst about it was that Draco felt he had no one to blame for it other than himself.

~((o))~

On the night before the first match, Blaise had magnanimously abstained from fucking the Mongolian reserve Seeker to accompany Draco in his drinking every bit of alcohol available in the same pub they’d frequented their whole stay. Or rather, Blaise watched him drink and helped haul his arse back to his room when even the Australian barmaid thought Draco had had enough.

Once in Draco’s room, Blaise even had the kindness to provide him with a sobriety potion before putting him to bed.

Draco had drunk way too much alcohol for the potion to take full-effect, but it still cleared his head enough for Blaise's words to reach his mind unaltered.

‘You know, Draco, I’ve no idea why you’re so broken up about this whole training fiasco with Potter. I mean, it’s not like you were ever as good as him anyway. This curse thing was a lucky break for you but there is no way you can win this game. Not without a little magical help, at least.’

There was something shark-like in Blaise’s grin when he fished another potion vial out of his pocket and placed it delicately on Draco’s bedside table, angling it so that Draco could read its label. _Etarnitæ Recoverus_.

‘And if you get caught, you can always say Potter slipped you his without your knowledge. He’s got access to it way more readily than you do, after all. It could be killing two birds with one stone.’

For a moment, Draco’s brain drew a blank. Was Blaise actually…? Was this really happening?

‘What the hell, Blaise?’ Draco spit out as soon as the shock had faded away. ‘Are you crazy? Cheating in an International Competition? Why would you think I’d even _consider_ doing something like that?’

And yes, he might be a little dishonest on that point because in the quarter of second following Blaise’s proposition, consciously or not, he _had_ considered it. He had considered it so seriously that he could feel the shame taking over his internal organs.

But as often as he fantasised about doing something like this, ever since he started playing Quidditch professionally, it didn’t mean he would ever _do_ anything about it. He wanted to beat Potter, yes. He wanted to be the best Seeker the world had ever seen, but he wanted to _earn_ it, as un-Slytherin as it was. He’d decided years ago that he’d already made enough bad choices for the rest of his life. He could very well admit that if he’d really been able to do half of the evil things he’d contemplated doing at one time or another, he wouldn’t be playing for Team England in the Olympics, but rotting away in Azkaban with so many people whose only fault was to have more guts than he ever had.

‘You wouldn’t be the first one to resort to such a solution, Draco.’ How could Blaise stay so bloody _calm_ about this? How was Draco the only one freaking out, here?

And then it hit him. Why Blaise was _so_ interested and knowledgeable about Quidditch. Why he only ever fucked Quidditch players. Why Potter’s reaction to Draco’s friendship with Blaise had been so visceral. This was not a last-resort idea Blaise had cooked up two days ago to help Draco save face for his first game in the Olympics. This was Blaise’s actual _line of work_. Draco didn’t know if Blaise profited from it by selling his potions or by betting on the team he helped win, and he didn’t care.

‘Shut up, Blaise,’ Draco hissed as venomously as he could manage. ‘Get out and take your fucking potion with you. You can shove it up your arse, for all I care. I don’t need it, and I don’t need you in my life anymore. You’re not my friend, and I don’t think you’ve ever been.’

It was pretty telling how Draco’s undisguised rage didn’t even ruffle Blaise; it didn’t even make him flinch. He palmed the vial and put it back in his pocket with perfect sangfroid, his self-satisfied smile not leaving his lips one second.

‘Your loss, my dear Draco. Or Team England’s, really.’

~((o))~

Draco didn’t sleep that night. Sobriety potions and Calming draught didn’t mix well and the whole ordeal had made him a bit paranoid with potions in general. He wanted to get in his bathroom and Vanish every single even remotely magical liquid stocked there, but managed to reason himself out of it. He had to stop being foolish. He had to calm down. He had to get a good night sleep in preparation for the following day’s afternoon match against Guiana. He had to stop thinking about Potter. Potter, who’d been right all along, but also so very unhelpful in making Draco _understand_. Potter had been an utter arsehole, but Draco got it now: if Potter thought Draco intended to cheat—Merlin, maybe he thought Draco had _always_ cheated—it was only natural he didn’t want to inconvenience himself by helping Draco train anymore.

But if only Potter had _said_ something… Who was he kidding? Draco wouldn’t have listened anyway. He’d been way too wrapped up in their fuck and all its consequences. Draco no longer knew if it was fucking Potter or refusing to fuck him again that he actually regretted.

He had to stop thinking about it. He had to sleep, and he had to do it soon. The morning was only a few hours away, and he definitely needed the rest. He would sleep, and he would talk to Potter in the morning. They would start over from scratch, and maybe Potter would have some brilliant last-minute advice that would make Draco not ridicule himself on the pitch.

When Draco finally fell asleep, the sun was already rising on the horizon, and when he got woken up by an actual legitimate Howler from Morgan, Draco knew things wouldn’t go well.

A bludger hit Draco right in the thigh during the first minutes of the game.

Guiana’s Seeker, Arcilla Echavarria, was a force to be reckoned with and was totally stringing Draco along. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Potter pre-game. His only actual human interaction of the day having been lunch with Laurel and Spinnet and listening to them discussing the supposed skills of the Guianese Keeper. It hadn’t kept Draco from throwing up his lunch just before going out on the pitch. Draco had no idea how he’d fallen down from France’s Player of the Year to _this_ , but he definitely had. At least, given how pathetic he must look like right now, if Potter was somewhere in the audience right now, there was no way he would be under the impression that Draco was cheating.

At least the rest of the team seemed to hold their own against the Guianese. They were not ahead by more than a hundred and fifty points, though, and Draco couldn’t hope for that. He had to get a grip and get back in the game. He had to _focus_.

Draco closed his eyes—as reckless as it was to close his eyes during a Quidditch match—and tried to even out his breathing. Draco loved to fly. He had to concentrate on that. Draco loved to fly and he was flying right now. Draco was bloody _good_ at flying. Draco could reach the stars, if he wanted to. There was no reason to hyperventilate. All he had to do was fly.

And fly, he did. For a moment, there was him and his broomstick in the air, and it was him who chose to focus back on the balls and the hoops, the other players and the referee. Faye Gold scored ten points for England, and, from the corner of his eye, Draco saw the Snitch disappear from somewhere near the commentators’ stands. It was too late to go after it, but a glance towards Echavarria reassured him that she hadn’t seen anything.

As Wood aced a Starfish and Stick save that made the crowd roar with joy, Draco began looping between possible places the Snitch could have flown to given its previous trajectory. He’d done two rounds across the pitch without seeing the Snitch when Echavarria caught his attention again. She’d just dived head first towards the ground at full speed, and the first and only thought that came to Draco’s mind was _Wronski Feint_.

She was attempting a Wronski Feint, but Draco didn’t fall for those. It was his best quality as a Seeker. _It was also his major flaw_ , came a thought not in Potter’s voice exactly, but with a tone very close to the one Potter would have had if he’d been the one talking.

Amongst all the chaos around him, and as far as he was from Echavarria, Draco couldn’t see if the Snitch was there or not—he couldn’t _analyse_ anything. It took him a few seconds—and when the Snitch was at play, seconds were always too long—to make his decision. He flattened himself on his broom and dove right after Echavarria. She was fast, very much so, but Draco could be an acceleration genius if he wanted to. He was getting pretty close to her broom’s tail when he saw it: the Snitch, flying lazily near the ground, and this was no feint at all. Echavarria had seen it and had gone after it first, but Draco knew he could still get it. He could see the ground getting closer and closer as he neared the Snitch and knew that, at the speed he was going, whether he managed to catch it before Echavarria or not, the chances of brutally smashing his skull on the ground were almost unavoidable.

He was neck and neck with Echavarria now and still gaining speed, the Snitch only inches away, and the hard earth ahead more menacing than ever. The adrenaline flowing in his system was threatening to make his head explode, but nothing could keep him from staying on course. He extended his arm in front of him, his fingers itching for it and then…

Echavarria caught the Snitch. Draco had a millisecond to correct his trajectory and escape his impending death by throwing himself against the ground and managed to crash a bit slower further away in the grass. It still hurt like a Crucio and they hadn’t won, but at least Draco was still alive. He then promptly passed out.

~((o))~

Draco woke up in a rudimentary hospital bed, to the sight of a white room larger but very similar to Healer Scarpin’s surgery, and Potter’s face looking worriedly at him from above.

‘Oh my god, Draco. Are you all right?’

Draco tried to articulate a response, but his head hurt a lot, and his throat was parched, and Merlin’s bollocks, how long had he been lying there? Would he even be able to play the next match?

‘Well, of course you’re not all right, that was kind of a stupid question, wasn’t it?’

Draco made the effort to move his head to nod at this because Potter’s smile might be small, but it did look sincere.

‘Here, have a drink,’ Potter said as he levitated a glass of water towards Draco’s face. There was the sweet sensation of a straw against his lip after that and once Draco had had a few swallows, he felt exponentially better. ‘So…’ Potter said, looking away. ‘I guess you didn’t cheat, after all…’

‘I didn’t even know,’ Draco croaked out more easily than anticipated, ‘that the cheating thing was something so predominant on Blaise’s CV.’ He felt a little foolish, admitting how little he knew about someone he considered such a close friend, but Potter was looking at him with none of the condescension Draco had expected from him for so long.

It encouraged Draco to tell him everything. ‘I only discovered it when he tried to make me take a potion for the game against Guiana. I wonder if it was the first time he suggested it to me because I usually won all of my games…. Well, _most_ of my games,’ he corrected after another glance at Potter’s earnest expression.

‘Merlin’s knickers! Do you think _he_ was the one to curse you?’ Draco exclaimed just as the idea came to his mind.

It would actually make a lot of sense, if making Draco win the greatest number of Quidditch matches had actually been one of Blaise’s goals. And if he’d gone this far, what else had he done without Draco ever realising it?

‘If you testify about the whole cheating thing, Ron said he could definitely get Blaise in serious trouble, but I can tell you he definitely isn’t responsible for the curse thing,’ Potter interrupted his thought process. ‘Because the, er. The curse wasn’t actually… It wasn’t. Er.’ Potter gulped and sighed and Draco was this close to hexing the words out of him when he went on, his face redder than Draco had ever seen it, ‘I wasn’t the actual target of the curse. It was you. It was some fanatic who had it in his head that you were still a Death Eater and I…’

Potter had jumped in front of the curse for him. Potter actually did that. Draco was vividly reminded _why_ one of the press’s nicknames for him was the Saviour of the Wizarding World.

‘You shouldn’t have done that, Potter. _You_ should be Team England’s Seeker, not me. Look what I did today,’ (or at least Draco wished it was still _today_ and he hadn’t been knocked out for longer than that) ‘we lost, and it was my fault, and if _you_ had played…’

‘It only hit my hand,’ Potter said softly, placing said hand next to Draco’s on the bed. ‘It wouldn’t have hit just your hand, Draco.’

Potter calling him Draco was… _odd_ , but not unpleasant. It prickled Draco’s skin and made him want to smile more than he thought he was able to.

‘And there’s something else I have to admit,’ Potter went on, the sudden guilt in his expression making Draco dread what he was about to say. _Oh no_ , Draco thought. Things had been going pretty well so far, and he had no desire for yet another revelation. ‘I was the one to ask Morgan for the whole personal trainer thing. I didn’t know she would take it quite _that_ far, but it was still my idea, originally. The Ministry didn’t want to send anyone to protect you physically so I came up with that. So that I could stay close to you and dissuade whoever it was from trying to curse you again.’

 _That must have been his reason to fuck me too_ , Draco’s brain supplied, the traitor that it was. It was the only thing that made sense, actually; the only thing that explained why Potter had been so eager to fuck him again.

‘Oh. That’s okay. I get it. And that’s why you…’ Draco didn’t know where he was going with this. He didn’t even know why he’d started talking.

Potter seemed to know, though, because his face fell abruptly, and he hurried to add, ‘No, that’s not why I wanted to, er. Why we… They’d, er. They’d caught the bloke that morning, actually. I didn’t know it at the time, actually, but. I, er. I did it because I wanted to, really, that’s all. I still wanted to, afterwards, and that’s why I didn’t attend all the training sessions. But, I mean. I only skipped them because I knew you were safe by then. And because I was scared I wouldn’t…er, _respect your wish_ , if we were in close contact…’

‘Do you still want to?’ Draco cut him off, feeling like he was really just doing his good deed of the day. Potter was flustered and entirely pathetic, and Draco had never regretted rejecting him more.

‘Yes,’ Potter answered immediately, before blushing fiercely. ‘I, er. I would like to. Very much so.’

All the scenarios that had flashed in Draco’s mind in the locker room—all of them with their unhappy ending and dire consequences—they were still there, in a corner of Draco’s consciousness, but they didn’t feel as unavoidable now, as important.

‘All right,’ he said, his throat dry again for no discernable reason. ‘Let’s try it, then.’

Potter was positively beaming at him, and Draco thought he was going to squeal or something, but all he said was a very stern, ‘Good.’

Potter gently squeezed his hand and added, ‘And, just so you know: Scarpin said your injuries would all heal overnight, and then we’ve still got five days until the next group match against Zimbabwe. We only lost by thirty points to Guiana. If we play our cards well, we can totally still ascend to round two.’

Draco smiled at Potter and squeezed his hand back. ‘Let’s win this thing, then.’

~the end~

**Author's Note:**

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